Chapter 19: The Things We Build
They didn't rush.
The walk home took longer than usual—not because of the weight of the past, but because of the beauty of the moment. Bea hummed softly beside Nova, sketchpad under her arm, the sound of their footsteps syncing with the beat of a life slowly learning peace.
"I want to build something," Bea said as they crossed the final street.
Nova looked over, one brow lifted. "Like what? Another sculpture? A new gallery room?"
"No," Bea said with a crooked grin. "A home."
Nova blinked. Not at the idea—but at the way the word home didn't strike fear anymore.
She swallowed.
"With me?" she asked, voice gentle.
Bea didn't answer. She just slipped her hand into Nova's, lifting it to her lips.
"I've already started."
---
The Next Morning
Their tiny kitchen was chaotic with flour, ink stains, and three different kinds of fruit Nova forgot she'd bought. Bea was trying to design a blueprint on her napkin, one foot on the table, hair tied with an old red ribbon.
"What if we put the studio above the bedroom?"
Nova raised a brow. "You mean so we can hear your paintbrush thumping at 2 a.m.?"
Bea grinned. "Exactly."
Nova crossed her arms. "Compromise. Bedroom on the top floor. Studio on the roof."
Bea's eyes sparkled. "You want skylights, don't you?"
Nova bit her lip. "No."
"You so want skylights."
They both laughed, and for the first time in years, it didn't sound like survival—it sounded like joy.
---
Later That Week
They found an old lot on the outskirts of town. Overgrown. Forgotten. Wild with weeds and untold stories.
Bea stepped out of the car and spun in a slow circle.
"This is it."
Nova looked around. "This is chaos."
Bea took her hand. "So were we."
They spent the afternoon sketching on the hood of the car. Nova wrote a mission. Bea drew the bones of the house. They talked about a sunroom, a book loft, a garden with night-blooming flowers.
And a hidden door.
"Why?" Nova asked.
"Because even in peace," Bea said, "I want us to feel like there's still magic."
---
At Night
Nova couldn't sleep.
She got up, walked to the window, and opened it wide. The stars were out—bright, unapologetic.
She whispered, more to the sky than to herself, "I never thought I'd get to build something that didn't burn."
Bea stirred behind her.
"You're not building it alone," she said softly.
Nova turned. Bea was half-asleep, eyes warm.
And Nova whispered back, "I never was."
---
Final Scene
In the corner of Nova's old journal, she scribbled something Bea would find weeks later:
> We were not made to just survive the fire.
We were meant to rise, ash-kissed and unafraid,
and build palaces from the bones of what tried to break us.
And that's exactly what they did.